Beneath the Shadow Veil
by WiltingDaisies94
Summary: For sixteen years, Katara has lived a peaceful life in the snowy lowlands of the Southern Water tribe. Then, on a dark winter morning, she is stolen from her home and brought to the Moon Temple as a sacrifice to the Goddess. She never expects to make it out alive... and cannot imagine what will happen if she does. [Z/K] [In-universe AU]
1. Chapter 1

**WiltingDaisies94** : This story is the brainchild of a rush of nostalgia for ATLA, thanks to 1) my introducing the show to a friend, and 2) a great Youtube video by Shipper's Guide to the Galaxy (check her out, she is delightful) focused on Zutara.

I wrote the opening quite enthusiastically, and I hope it speaks to all lovers of Zutara, ATLA, and mythology. While this story is not an AU or a crossover, it's not 100% the Avatar world as you know it... so take a peek and please leave thoughts, comments, and feedback.

As always, happy reading!

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender, or any related series.

* * *

Chapter 1

It was the most magnificent robe she'd ever worn, and no matter how long she stared, it never became less horrifying.

Long before the rich material touched her skin, at a time when the lovely robes hung simply in the confines of the wardrobe, she had trembled at the thought of donning such finery. Her hands nervously clutched the thin folds of her own clothing: a long, plain tunic, given shape by a wide sash, and thick leg wrappings for warmth.

Her shoes had been discarded – at least, they had been taken from her on entry to the temple. She couldn't imagine the stone-faced guard who'd carried her inside would have much use for the sturdy, well-worn boots. He was twice her size, with eyes like a glacier, and had spoken mostly in grunts.

Outmatched, she had left her few belongings behind. Her one defiance had been the pins that held her dark hair aloft – she had smuggled them into the temple, hidden in her undergarments. How strange it was to wear her hair free, flowing along her back as though she were a great lady. From the moment of her first blood, her wayward strands had been pinned and pinched into submission, kept well above her shoulders. Only the highest born women were permitted to wear enfettered locks or long, lusty braids.

Such luxury was not her due, and every morning she considered the hairpins in the bare light that entered the room where she was kept. They were long and thin, made of plainest stone or bone. The largest of them had been carved by her grandmother. It was decorated with the symbols of their people: waving curves and crescent moons, spiraling circles, and some patterns she did not recognize. She kissed the smooth surface every night, and wondered how many more lines had grown on her grandmother's face since their last moments together.

It was a familiar memory, as worn and abused as her boots had ever been. In her sleep, she saw the snowy banks of their home, so near the shifting, icy waters, that any moment it seemed the swells would overtake their cottage. The tracks of small animals dotted the morning landscape, and birds flocked overhead, forever passing on to warmer climes. Lazy floes of ice drifted by, carried on an indulgent sea. In the centre of the village, canoes were built and repaired, fishing spears sharpened. Oars were carved from scarce, precious wood, and looms worked unceasingly in skilled, aged hands.

She had been standing by the cottage entrance, clearing dead wood from the fire pit. It was early winter, and even driftwood was difficult to come by. Sorting through the ashes, digging for charred twigs that might burn once more was no pleasant task, but resources were limited. She knew well how every stick counted in the fight for survival, and that the alternative source of fuel – animal dung – would cling to every mouthful she ate for months.

Her grandmother had been inside, apportioning their food stores, when the trouble began. A flurry of raised voices, gruff and demanding, sounded throughout the village. It was a military unit from the chief of the Lower Territory. A dozen or so armed men swept through the village, barking commands at the frightened people. Their ice-crawlers slithered along the chilly ground, their flat-edged tails whipping carelessly behind them.

Had her grandmother said something, as she pushed her into the cottage? Or was it only her imagination that recalled a warning, a grim determination that shot through her knowing eyes?

She could not remember.

What she was certain of, however, was the refusal. The sharp denial of her grandmother's usually gentle voice, the feeble shield of her ancient body against the cottage entrance. She remembered the angry demands, the repeated shaking of her grandmother's head. The whip-like crack of the guard's hand against the sweet, wrinkled cheek. Fragile bones hitting a solid, icy ground, and her own angry cry.

They had come for her, then, and the last she had known of her grandmother's face was a trickle of blood from temple to chin. The two squinting eyes had burned with tears and worry, a look that broke her heart, one she would carry to her grave.

Strong, brutal arms had scooped her up, tossed her over a hard saddle. The last glimpse of her home faded behind her, blurred by tears she could not banish, no matter how the guards shook her.

The journey to the temple must have lasted a half moon cycle, perhaps longer. It was impossible to tell. The days were dark, and only the faintest rays of sun appeared along the way, never lingering. Fortunately, the ice crawlers had bulging eyes made for arctic blackness, and with their aid, her captors were never lost.

At first, she had recoiled whenever a guardsman came near. But the men rarely spoke to her, and her initial fears were slowly put to rest. Only the biggest of them touched her, and even then, it was merely to replace her in the saddle, or carry her to the evening fire. It was one of their odd rules – they refused to allow her feet to touch the ground.

On arrival at the temple, her burly escorts had turned her over to a new set of guards. These men wore the sky-blue robes of the Moon Temple, and they were no more talkative than their predecessors. After losing all but the least of her clothing, she had been borne away to the high-ceilinged room she now occupied. She was not permitted to leave.

At least within the walls of this sparsely decorated space she could access her own two feet. Soft, woven rugs covered the floor, the room's one luxury.

She never knew how many days she passed in solitude, prisoner in a sacred place. There was so little sunlight to penetrate the clouds, and the only person she saw was the serving maid who brought her meals.

Even then, her tentative self-introduction has been met with silence. All her questions were ignored, wafting uselessly to the ceiling, where they amassed like storm clouds. A guard always accompanied the serving maid, standing in the doorway, a reminder not to run.

In one way, his presence was a mercy. It excused her from answering to herself. Did she have the courage to flee?

No need to ask when there was no opportunity.

She waited and waited, and when a new face finally appeared, she could have wept for the chance at conversation. Her visitor was an elderly woman, with thick features and drooping earlobes, who called herself the White Priestess. In her arms she held the beautiful robes, and in her mouth, an ugly explanation.

She did cry, then, as the White Priestess stood impassively by. Had they no hearts, these powerful men with their schemes? Or were they simply frozen, hard and cold as the ice around them? She would refuse. She would run. She would –

She would not, the White Priestess assured her. She could not. This was no airy matter for a young girl to decide. This was the fate of a people, the lives of tens of thousands. She would do as she was told, and the nation would praise her bones for centuries to come.

With the calm detachment of a snowdrift, the White Priestess had departed, leaving her to fresh waves of fruitless tears.

The robes had remained, and staring at herself now in the long mirror, freshly bathed and draped in fabric, it was hard to think of her bones. She was swathed in layers of cloth, long overskirts in shades of ever-darkening blue. The outermost color was a midnight sky in fabric form, the hem trimmed with fur. Her flowing sleeves were edged with seed pearls, and hung daintily over her wrists. The sky-blue bodice was softer than a dream, and tied with a sash made of delicate spider-bat lace.

Her neck was bare, but the serving maid had come that morning and painted her face. Over the base coat of white, curves of blue paint caressed her cheeks, and two crescent moons intersected on her forehead. Her lips were dyed a deep purple, and black paint lined her eyes. Her hair had been brushed and slightly arranged, with small strands gathered at the back in a knot crowned with pearls. The rest hung in waves down her back.

She looked nothing like herself, draped in yards of luxurious material, her face arch and expressionless beneath the paint.

When the door opened, she stood automatically. A phalanx of temple acolytes entered and she was guided onto a palanquin shouldered by four temple guards. As the procession moved through the quiet halls, she hid behind the curtains and tucked her grandmother's hairpin into her bodice.

Then, swallowing her tears so as not to ruin the painted mask, Katara faced forward and prepared to meet the man who would end her life.


	2. Chapter 2

WiltingDaisies94: Welcome back for another chapter. It's been a few weeks since Netflix announced it's upcoming live-action Avatar series, and with the cautious optimism of someone who grew up with ATLA, I have been rewatching old episodes for inspirational purposes. May the execs at NF do the same, and may the results be equally interesting.

Happy reading!

* * *

Chapter 2

The Moon Temple had stood in the Southern Water Tribe's Upper Territory for hundreds of years. The circular compound surrounded an open courtyard, and long torches ringed the area, blazing through the day. A strange smell filled the air, something Katara could not place; it sat on her tongue as though she could swallow the smoky odor. Stone sculptures dotted the courtyard, the Moon Goddess in her many phases. They were young girls, fresh-faced maidens, motherly figures, and old crones. Worn and timeless.

It must have been midday, or close to, as the sky had lightened to a white-grey. No sun broke through the clouds, and she wondered how long the weak light would endure.

Through the curtains of the palanquin, Katara spotted a large delegation. During their brief interlude, the White Priestess had impressed on her the prestigious nature of the gathering. Chieftains of the Upper, Central, and Lower tribes would all be present, along with their sons, advisors, and military commanders. Priests from the secondary Ice Temple would be gathered as well, journeyed far from the Central Territory.

There was no temple in the sparsely populated Lower Territory, where Katara had lived and grown. Her village lay on the farthest shore of the island's southern edge. When she was little, she had often pestered her grandmother about their remote location. Why couldn't they live in the Upper Territory, where the days were longest and trading ports were filled with ships from the southern Air Temples and Earth Kingdom? Why must they eke out an existence in the far corners of the nation, when there was more to life than seal hunting and ice fishing?

Gran-Gran had never answered these questions. Instead, her face would close, and the look she cast her small granddaughter was one of indulgence, tinted with pity.

Shutting her eyes, Katara regretted every moment she'd spent badgering her grandmother to change territories. What she would not give to be home again, far from the clutches of these plotting chiefs and their nodding coalitions. She would gladly collect sticks from every sooty fire in the village, if only she could return to her grandmother's embrace.

Someone announced her arrival, using a title that was not hers, and the men backed away, arranging themselves. (By age? Rank? Katara was not sure). A jumble of masculine voices murmured words of assent as the guards laid the palanquin at the foot of a raised, circular platform.

A gloved hand reached through the curtains, and Katara was led into the light by a temple attendant swathed in sky-blue. Other than herself, the White Priestess, and a half-dozen female acolytes, no women were present for the ceremony.

Her embroidered shoes touched the platform's first step, and Katara began the ascent. Two acolytes followed, carrying the ends of her fur-trimmed robe.

The eighth level was the last, and from her new height, Katara viewed the assembled masses. It was a sea of white and blue, furs and skins. Too rich to be the garments of her village, splendor she would have clamored to see as a child.

Behind her, the White Priestess mounted the platform, her body weighted down by flowing robes and a necklace of heavy whalebone. Three of her attendants - robed in white, with black dots on their foreheads and chins - carried the ceremonial objects: a silver scarf, a crystal crown, and a stone goblet. A fourth attendant stood off to the side. Her robes were black as pitch, and a white line ran across her nose and cheeks. She held a final, covered item, long and thin.

Her executioner was already atop the platform – Hau, son of Grand Chief Roka of the Upper Territory. His skin was coppery, dark and thick as leather. His face was painted in the blue and grey of a warrior, and a long scar ran down his exposed left arm. When his father died, he would wield the greatest power in the Southern Water Tribes.

He was powerfully built, Katara saw. At least her end would be quick.

"Leaders of the South," the White Priestess said, and a hush fell over the crowd, "we come this day, as the long winter begins, to prove our devotion to the great Goddess, She of the Shining Veils, Lady of the Storm and the Seafarer's Light. Our heavenly mistress is a just and terrible spirit, and by her light we shall find our way through the darkness."

As the men cheered, Katara's eyes fell on the flat altar behind the Priestess. It was grey stone, cleared of snow and ice. A small indent lowered the center, surrounded by shallow rivulets. How many girls had laid their heads on this final resting place? Katara wondered. Had they worn the same robes? The same delicate, embroidered slippers and heavy paint?

"In Her infinite wisdom, our Goddess shall lead us through the long night, and into the light of rebirth, beginning a new cycle for all. But the journey is fraught, and in our devotion, we offer a modest token of our support, our need and desire to rejoice in the embrace of our Mistress." The White Priestess motioned to the nearest acolyte, who approached, crystal crown in hand.

Katara's neck trembled under its weight, but Hau's sharp eyes dared her to waver, and she stiffened. It was, after all, a temporary adornment.

"To you, Oh Mother of the Dusk, we present this young woman," the White Priestess continued, gesturing, "pure and luminous as the snow, the humblest among your servants, to accompany You on your exalted journey."

Another roar rose from below, and Hau stepped towards Katara.

"On this day it is Hau, son of Roka – leader of men, and follower of Your most loving and unchallenged ways – who guides this young beauty to Your gates."

The second acolyte offered Hau the silver scarf. It was fragile in his massive hands, and Katara shivered as the heir to the Upper Territory approached her. His calloused hands brushed her neck, gathering the loose waves together. Silently, Hau tied her hair back, knotting the scarf twice to keep it in place.

"We ask only that You accept our daughter into Your nurturing arms. And may her service be understood as the hard work of all Your servants here on earth. Just as countless drops of water make up the sea, so we are many people of a single blood." The White Priestess held out a hand, and the last white-robed acolyte came forward.

"With this," the Priestess continued, raising the goblet high, "we bind the greatest of our nation with the least. We commit ourselves to Your glory, Unknowable Goddess, one and all, and pray that You have mercy on Your people, now and in the long night to come."

The Priestess offered Hau the goblet. He drank stoically, then passed it to Katara.

The liquid was sweet at first, but turned bitter as it went down. Uncertain how much she was expected to drink, Katara finished the goblet. Once it was empty, the acolyte retrieved the cup and stepped back into line with the other two.

"Now is the time of our great delight," the White Priestess intoned, raising her hands to the sky.

As the onlookers cheered, Hau took Katara's arm in a viselike grip, and led her across the platform. With a push, he forced Katara to her knees, his hand pressing against her upper back. Leaning forward, Katara's cheek met the unforgiving face of the altar, slotting neatly into the round indent. Hau brushed her hair, still tied in the silver scarf, out of the way.

"In darkness as in light," the White Priestess chanted.

"In darkness as in light," came the response. It swelled from below, a great consensus at Katara's expense.

Was it fear she felt then, in the numb patch at the base of her throat? Was it sadness? Anger?

Katara could not see the black-robed acolyte, and did not hear the cloth fall from the ritual weapon. She did not even know what it was – a club, perhaps? A machete? An axe? She was ignorant of how the Moon Goddess preferred her violence.

As Hau's footsteps approached, Katara pressed herself into the altar, and her grandmother's pin pushed into her breastbone. In that moment, Katara recognized the sensation – it was regret.

She stared at the acolytes' feet and tried to picture her Gran-Gran. Hers was the smile Katara loved most dearly in the world, and she would die with it in her mind's eye – it was the least and last she could do for the woman who had raised her.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Katara waited for the blow to fall.


	3. Chapter 3

WiltingDaisies94: Installment #3. Happy reading.

* * *

Chapter 3

There was a long moment.

Then an anxious murmur ran through the crowd.

Katara's brain, dizzy from the Priestess' concoction, wondered how she could have heard the reaction to her own death. Had she become a spirit so quickly? Had she died without even feeling her executioner's blade?

A tangle of frightened noises rose from the courtyard. A man barked commands - perhaps it was Hau, though Katara did not know his voice. Her eyes opened, and Katara looked up.

She was greeted by the most extraordinary sight.

Hovering above the Ice Temple, like a creature from one of her grandmother's stories, a great beast soared through the sky. Its enormous, leathery wings beat the air, and Katara stared, her mouth hanging open. The creature was long in the body and white as the snow around it. Sharp claws protruded from two sets of strong legs, and from her position, Katara could just see a figure seated atop the creature's neck.

She watched in awe as the flying serpent opened its mouth and spewed icy blue flames into the courtyard.

Katara's hands jumped to shield her face.

His task forgotten, Hau dropped the ceremonial club and sprinted down the platform. Three of the temple acolytes clustered around the White Priestess, trying to save her from the fire. The fourth had fallen from the platform, and lay unmoving in the snow below.

A barrage of ice and water shot into the sky, and Katara peeked through her fingers, curious in spite of her fear. A handful of waterbenders had rushed forward, their arms raised in attack. Katara was surprised by how few highborn men had the ability - many were fleeing back to the temple, calling for guards, who appeared instantly and rushed into battle.

Katara watched, fascinated. Three men were stirring a whirlpool above their heads, their faces furrowed in concentration. With a cry, they released the attack, and the spinning water tore through the sky. This was followed by a volley of spears, some of ice, some of bone, from benders and warriors alike. The weapons soared through the sky, aimed at the creature's vulnerable underbelly.

Katara had never witnessed such skill. The only waterbender in her village was Isan, an ancient transplant from the Northern Water Tribes. But her bending was for helping the sick and wounded - closing cuts, soothing fevers, saving lives. Once, Katara had seen Isan pull a struggling child back from the waves, but it was a great effort for the elderly woman. Katara had helped Isan back to her cottage, and felt the exhausted heaves of her ribcage.

In all her life, Katara had never witnessed the true power of waterbending. She felt insignificant beside the display.

From her perch, Katara recognized Hau fighting below. Her would-be executioner had torn away the cumbersome ceremonial robes, and his torso rippled with the hard muscles of martial training. She shivered at the sight, but Hau seemed not to feel the cold as he moved through a complex sequence of steps. Pulling a boulder's worth of ice from the ground, he catapulted it into the air.

The courtyard rocked from the impact, and one of the statues of the Moon Goddess toppled, landing face-first in the snow _._ A bad omen.

A roar brought Katara's attention back to the sky, where the creature effortlessly dodged the hostile volleys, its body easing from side to side, coiling and unwinding. With stunning speed, it flew towards the temple, blue flame splitting Hau's ice boulder into a million snowy crystals. The scaly forearms extended, and with a thud that made Katara cling to the altar, the beast landed in the courtyard.

It was more than white, Katara realized. The creature's scales were beautifully opal, subtle shades of coral, jade, and sky-blue shifting across its skin. More teeth than Katara could count appeared as the fanged mouth widened. She saw the glow begin, rising from the creature's throat. Was it fire? Ice? Both? The serpent expelled another fantastic breath, and snow evaporated around the courtyard as the devastating stream passed by.

"You."

Katara whipped around, the heavy crown falling from her head. The White Priestess had emerged from the protective huddle of her acolytes, one of whom had fainted. Her ancient face was contorted with rage, and she pointed an accusing finger across the platform. " _You_ brought this on us. Unworthy whore."

Whore? Her? Katara stared dumbly at the Priestess.

Shaking off her attendants, the old woman advanced. "Was it one of the guards?" she hissed, her hands outstretched. "Damn that serving wench! I warned her to report any impropriety. By the Goddess, I'll have her whipped until she begs for death. But _you_ ," the Priestess said, raising a finger, "you first."

The smallest voice in Katara's head burst into hysterical laughter. It was unreal: behind her, a small battalion of waterbenders battling a fearsome beast of legend, and before her, a murderous old woman with earlobes hanging down to her shoulders. If ever there was a time to go mad…

But her rational mind dove for control, and before Katara fully understood what she was doing, she had released her grip on the altar and was scrambling for the ceremonial club Hau had abandoned.

For all her ancient bones, the White Priestess seemed to fly across the platform. The two women grappled with each other, youth and age locked in a cruel contest. The White Priestess had fury on her side, but her wrinkled hands held the thick head of the club, which was hard to grip.

It slid from her hand, and with a frustrated cry, the Priestess hurled herself forward.

There was no hesitation. Katara lifted the club over her shoulder and swung with all her might. The weapon collided with the Priestess' head, a sickening crack that echoed in the air, and the old woman crumpled at her feet, a spatter of blood staining the snow.

Katara heard shrieks from the acolytes, the scamper of feet as they fled. She stared at her hands, stunned. Had she…? Was she…?

She tossed the weapon aside. Blood pooled beneath the Priestess' head, and Katara turned away, sick to her stomach. Half the courtyard was ablaze with icy fire, and her limbs swayed beneath her. Whatever had been in that goblet was playing tricks on her, Katara was sure of it. She buried her face in her hands, wishing it all away.

But there was no peace to be found, and a stream of hot air engulfed her. Katara looked up, and found herself face-to-face with the flying serpent. Its huge head swayed before her, a single eye, dark as slate, resting on her face. The creature lowered its neck, and the rider came into view, level with the platform.

He was an older man with grey hair and a pointed beard. His lilac robe, Katara noticed, was minutely embroidered with pale flowers. Purple and white. Colors without allegiance.

 _Is he a spirit?_ Katara considered. He looked very real.

"Daughter of Jala," the man said, and his voice was deep and calm, as if the fighting below disturbed him not at all. "You must come with me."

He held out a hand, and his eyes were grave. But there was a kindness to them, a sympathy that reminded Katara strangely of her grandmother.

"Please," the old man said. "Your world depends on it."

Dazed, Katara looked at the extended hand. It was steady. Sturdy. It would take her away from all this… from the bloody club, from Hau, son of Roka, and his crushing grip. From the prone Priestess, still splayed on the platform beside her.

Stumbling forward, Katara took the offered hand, and the old man pulled her onto the beast's back. As cries of anger rose from the assembled warriors, Katara gripped the old man's robe, her free hand taking hold of the creature's saddle. With a roar that shook Katara down to her bones, the great serpent unfolded its wings, and - toppling the raised platform with its tail - bore her away into the sky.


	4. Chapter 4

WiltingDaisies94: The story continues! Katara has escaped the Moon Temple... but at what cost?

* * *

Chapter 4

Katara did not know what overcame her first: the terror that was flight, or the mysterious drink the White Priestess had given her. Her stomach had already been swirling when she'd madly accepted the old man's hand and taken off into the sky. Now her head swam with every dip and sway of the great beast's back, and Katara had to clamp her eyes shut to block out the world rushing by miles and miles beneath her.

Stressed beyond endurance, Katara focused on her breathing. She let the rhythm become her universe, and without realizing it, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

As the clouds flew by, Katara dreamed of her father. She had never met him, but in her mind he was tall and broad in the shoulder, with an easy smile and comforting arms. His hair was chestnut-colored, like her own, half-tied in a topknot. His beard was close cut and he had blue eyes, dark and deep as a stormy sea. Eyes that loved and laughed. Patient eyes.

In her dream, they stood on a magnificent, snow-covered shore, and her father lifted her over his head. She was no more than two or three years old, and she squealed with delight as he tossed her in the air, the sun shining down on them. Her father's face split into a grin, as she tumbled into his arms.

Then her mother appeared - young, beautiful, with a worried look on her face. Her father halted their game, and put Katara down. She watched her parents, wondering why the fun had stopped.

Her mother spoke softly, her lips trembling. From the ground, Katara watched her father's face grow hard. Saw him place an arm around her mother, and pull her close. They fit together like koi fish, and when they broke apart, their hands intertwined. Together, they hurried up the frozen coast until they disappeared from sight.

Katara tried to run after them, but the snow was thick around her legs. When her mouth opened, no sound came out. Her hands reached out, as though she might will her father to return. The world shook, and Katara squeezed her eyes shut, tears falling down her cheeks.

With a cry, she woke.

It was an old dream, familiar and uncomfortable as a wet woolen glove. Her father, she knew, had died fighting against the Northern Water tribe. Her mother had been taken by a fever shortly after her birth. Katara had never met her parents, and Gran-Gran rarely spoke of them.

All Katara had were their names: Ky and Koda. Mother and Father.

"Would you care for some tea?"

The voice startled her from her thoughts. Half-awake, Katara reached for the nearest hold; she was on the back of a flying serpent, far above the ground. If she didn't find something to hold onto, surely she would fall-

Katara's hand closed around grass and pebbles. Blinking, Katara found herself settled safely on beautiful, green, solid earth.

The old man chuckled. "We've stopped for the moment," he said, his voice a warm rumble in his chest. "Even my dragon is not inexhaustible, I'm afraid."

 _Dragon_. So that was the name of his creature. Katara looked around, wondering where the beast… _dragon_ … had gone.

"Lu Ten is hunting," said the old man, guessing her thoughts. "He loves a good herd of mountain gazelles."

A _herd?_ Katara swallowed.

"Come," the old man said, "let's have some tea. I find it's the best remedy for a long ride - settling for the mind and the stomach." He smiled, and gestured for her to follow.

Katara did, glancing at the sky in case a hungry dragon lurked nearby.

"I apologize for the lack of choices," the old man said, leading her to a small fire, where a pot boiled. "Ideally I would have two - no, three - kinds of tea. Green, of course. Cherry blossom or plum. And a dark tea, black or berry of some kind." He smiled politely. "Alas, I have only jasmine on my person today. Will that suit you?"

"I… yes, please." Katara was surprised at the husky sound of her voice. At the Moon Temple, she'd had no one to speak with. Her tongue lay thick in her mouth. "Have I been asleep for long?"

"A few hours, perhaps." Her rescuer produced two cups from a satchel she had not noticed before, followed by a ladle. "A shame not to have a proper teapot," he said, more to himself than Katara, "but I suppose one does not take such things on a journey like this."

Before Katara could ask what he meant, a warm cup was placed in her hands. "Thank you," she said, bowing her head.

"With pleasure." The old man lowered himself to the grass, holding a second cup. "To your good health."

She took a long drink, and her eyes closed in delight. The tea was perfect - just the right temperature, with a clean taste and a pure, golden color. There was tea in her village, of course, but it was usually made from dried sea prune skins, and was more for warmth than satisfaction. Occasionally a daring trader made it far enough south to sell the real thing, but it was usually made from tree bark and had a bitter aftertaste.

Nothing like this, she thought. _This_ was heavenly.

Katara sat in silence with the old man, letting the tea settle her stomach. Slowly, the events of the last day returned to her, and she shuddered into her cup. To think, she had nearly lost her head… nearly been thrown to her death… ridden a dragon…

And yet, there she was. A thousand miles from home, sitting across from the man who had saved her life. Sipping tea.

Holding the teacup to her chest, Katara cleared her throat. "Sir," she began, but the old man cut her off.

"Please," he said. "My name is Iroh."

"Oh."

"But," he said, "you may call me Uncle."

Katara fidgeted, unsure what she'd done to earn the privilege. "Thank you, Uncle," she said. "What I meant to say–"

"And you are?"

She looked up, taken aback. No one in the Moon Temple had ever bothered to ask her name. "My name is Katara," she said, "granddaughter of Kanna."

Grey eyebrows rose along the old man's forehead. Once it was common in the Southern Water Tribes for children to introduce themselves by their mother's line. But when the North had taken control, the custom had changed. Only fathers mattered now.

When Iroh said nothing, Katara went on. "What I would like to say is... thank you. For saving my life."

Iroh stood and walked towards the fire. "Lu Ten did most of the work," he said, refilling his cup.

Katara didn't understand. Was he joking? Perhaps he was being modest. "You took me away from that awful place," she said. "They were going to… the chieftain's son, he was going to… and you saved me. A poor village girl, and a stranger to you."

Iroh sat, steam rising from his cup. "As I said, it was Lu Ten who discovered you." He looked at her, and for a moment his expression turned serious. "Yours is a precious life, granddaughter of Kanna."

Katara could not think of a response. Gran-Gran had taught her that every life was precious. She did not see why hers should be important to Iroh. Or his dragon, for that matter.

At a loss for words, Katara reviewed her surroundings. It seemed they were on a mountain, somewhere beyond the Southern Water Tribe's borders. The air was thin and slightly cold, but there was no snow. Instead, the ground was strewn with boulders and large patches of tall, narrow trees.

When only the dregs of her tea remained, Katara stood and made a full bow. "Uncle," she said, "I can never properly thank you for your kindness. I owe you my life, and there is no greater service in the world than that." She straightened up. "That said, I would be forever in your debt - more so than I already am - if you would take me home."

Iroh smiled, but there was sadness in the corners of mouth. "Ahh," he said, shaking his head, "that I cannot do."

Katara frowned. "Cannot?"

Iroh nodded, and took another sip of his tea.

"Cannot?" she repeated. "I… but… why not?"

"Because," Iroh said, "that is not your destination."

"Destination?"

"Yes," Iroh said, placing his empty cup on the ground. "You are not to return to the South. You will come with me. And Lu Ten, of course."

Katara stared at him. She couldn't believe her ears. After all the trouble he'd gone through to save her from the Moon Temple, he was going to kidnap her?

She shook her head. "Why would I do that?"

"Because," Iroh said, as though imparting a simple fact, "you are to wed the Sun King." He rubbed his hands together. "Now, how about another cup of tea?"


End file.
